


Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sits quietly, and for a long time the only sound is their soft breathing, the clink of the comb on the edge of the cup, the soft scrape of his nails against her scalp, the brush of his fingers against her neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Three. This has been sitting on my hard drive since the start of the season, ever since that "damn romance novel" comment in Ep.401 (back when I was fighting hard against shipping Daryl/Beth.) It started life for a 'secret identity' prompt, then morphed into a 'like an old married couple' prompt. I could never get it to work. I finally scrapped the old drafts, got rid of an OC and rewrote the entire thing yesterday, and I'm much happier now. (Written for part of LJ's tv_universe Big Bang.)
> 
> * * *

"No, oh no," Beth squeals. "Get away!"

Judith squeals in her arms for a different reason entirely, her plump little legs and arms flailing in excitement. And Beth hasn't even begun to back away before Daryl has swooped in and ripped away the plastic covering on the lollipop to place the sucker in one of Judith's chubby fists. 

"Oh no," Beth says again. "I just got her washed up!"

"Can wash her again," Daryl says, swiping a hand over Judith's downy hair. "Ain't like we're havin' a water shortage or nothin'."

"Can I remind you that the showers aren't working again?" Beth says. "And it's not just her that needs washing up when you do this? Do you know how long it takes to get lollipop goop out of my hair?"

Daryl huffs out a breath. "Your hair is fine. She ain't gonna touch it." He leans down to tickle Judith's belly, smiles when the baby gurgles at him around a mouthful of raspberry lollipop juice. "Are ya, little asskicker?"

The baby immediately makes a liar of him, making a determined grab for Beth's ponytail. 

"Okay," Daryl concedes, "maybe just a little."

When Judith's other hand comes up to smack into her head, Beth gives up on diving away from the lollipop and resigns herself to getting covered in the sticky mess. Still, she can't help smiling at the happiness on Judith's face as she licks joyfully at the treat. It takes so little to make the baby smile. And if that means she has to spend an extra ten minutes scrubbing out stains from Judith's jumper and another hour working the sticky mess out of her own hair, well then…

Beth sighs, tucks Judith more firmly onto her hip. She rolls her eyes when Judith again palms a sugary wet hand into her long hair. "I ought to just cut it all off," she grouses.

* * *

When the last of the dishes have been washed and dried, the final bucket of water pre-boiled for the morning breakfast, and Judith is finally asleep after half a dozen renditions of _Bridge Over Troubled Water_ , Beth finally makes her way to her cell. Her room, such as it is.

She leans wearily against the bars, scrubs a hand across her forehead. Her sweater is still strewn on the bunk where she tossed it earlier, a few crayoned drawings that the kids gave her scattered next to it. She can just make out her journal poking its spine from beneath her pillow. She just wants to push it all to the floor, crawl under the covers and sleep for seventy-five years. 

Instead she straightens her shoulders and pushes off from the bars, places the mug of water she's carrying on the table. Then she crosses the room and hangs her sweater on the bedpost. Gathers the drawings neatly together and puts them on the table, ready to be taped to the concrete walls tomorrow. She allows herself one longing look at the bunk, that thin mattress and lumpy pillow oh-so tempting, before she turns her back on it and sits in front of the little desk. Tugs the mirror a little closer to the edge of the table.

She reaches up to pull out her ponytail, shakes her head to loosen the strands. It takes her almost five seconds of staring uncomprehendingly at the hair tie in her hands before she realizes that her hair is still stuck at the back of her head in one giant gelatinous mass. 

She makes a face at her reflection. "New fashion trend," she says dryly before she raises a hand to start slowly separating the strands. Her fingers immediately become sticky, even hours after that darn sucker, and she'd curse Daryl Dixon… except Judith really does love those lollipops. 

She's gotten about a third of the way through the mess, separating her hair into sections and then dampening it before painstakingly drawing a comb through the gluey strands, when she realizes that there is someone hovering at the periphery of her cell. She glances up, meets Daryl's eyes.

"Hey," he says.

She smiles, nods his way. It's not like Daryl hasn't stopped by before. Sometimes to borrow a book, sometimes just to let her know that he'd keep an ear out for Judith during the night so she could get a full nights rest. So she has turned her attention back to her reflection and drawn the comb through another section of her hair, wincing when it gets caught on another sticky segment about a third of the way down, before she realizes that Daryl hasn't actually said a word. She looks up quickly, hand frozen in place. "Is everything all right? Judith?"

"She's fine."

"My dad?"

"Everyone's fine," Daryl says. He hesitates another moment, glances back along the darkened cell block before seeming to come to a decision and pushing off from the bars. "Here," he says, striding into the room, gesturing for the comb. "Lemme help."

"Really?" Beth asks. But he's already sitting on the edge of the bed, plucking the comb from her hands and reaching around her to dip it into the water. 

"Least I can do," he says, "since it's my fault and all."

"It totally is your fault," she agrees mock-seriously. "Where do you keep finding those lollipops, anyhow?"

"Got a secret stash," Daryl says. "Only me and lil asskicker know the hidin' place."

Beth smiles, closes her eyes when Daryl's fingers smooth through her hair, patiently working through the sticky snarls and knots. They seem like they ought to be rough, those hands, but they're not – they're gentle, even calming. 

"You're good at this," Beth says. Her eyes light up as she turns to glance over her shoulder. "I've got it. You were a hair stylist before the turn."

Daryl snorts. "Yeah. You figured it out."

"Your secret identity," Beth teases.

When Daryl just waves the comb at her, she turns back around, still grinning. Again she lets her eyes drift closed. She sits quietly, and for a long time the only sound is their soft breathing, the clink of the comb on the edge of the cup, the soft scrape of his nails against her scalp, the brush of his fingers against her neck. 

"Never seen that before," Daryl says.

She jumps, just a little, realizes she may have been drifting off at the feel of his fingers raking slowly through her hair. She opens her eyes to glance at him over her shoulder. When Daryl juts his chin toward the desk, she follows his gaze to the faded polaroid propped against the concrete wall. He raises a brow and she nods, watches as he carefully takes the photo by the edges to angle it toward the light.

"Never seen your old man in a suit," Daryl says.

Beth laughs. "That's probably the only time he ever wore one."

"Who's the lady?"

Beth frowns, glances from the photo of her parents to Daryl's face. "That's my mother."

"I thought—"

He stops abruptly, and Beth knows that he sees the walkers spilling from the barn just as she does, their skin grey and rotting, their skeletal arms reaching out. She can still hear herself screaming, even over the blasts from the rifles. Can still see the bullet catch Shawn in the temple, swinging him around as he toppled to the dusty ground and lay unmoving. And her mother… a bullet had taken her too and she'd fallen and Beth had pushed out of Jimmy's arms and gone to her, had just wanted to hold her one last time, and then…

Beth shakes her head, pushes the memories aside in favour of happier ones. "Daddy married Annette when I was eight years old," she says. "He started courting her a few years before that. She was my mama in every way. That's who I… lost… at the farm. But this," she says, pointing at the picture, "is my real mother. She passed away when I was two."

"Sorry," Daryl says. He scrubs a hand over the scruff of his beard, looks from the photo to her face before handing the photo back to her. "She was real pretty."

Beth smiles up at him, and if her eyes are shining she doesn't care because Daryl's never been one to judge. She swipes away a tear unselfconsciously, not even sure if she's crying for Annette, who was ripped from her twice, or for the lost mother she never really knew. "Maggie looks just like her," she says. 

She looks back down at the photo, as though staring hard enough at the informal wedding portrait could make more memories come to the surface. She touches a fingertip to her mother's long brown hair, her wide smile. But all she remembers of the woman in the picture is the way her hair smelled, like the wildflowers that grew in the back fields, and the softness of her hands. All she knows of the woman who gave her birth is the stories her father tells.

"They met at church," she says. "Daddy moved away for a long time, and when he came back my Grandpa Greene had passed on and Daddy took over the farm. But both families go way back, generations that worshipped at that same little clapboard church, sent their kids to the same schools. So they knew my father, they remembered him from when he was a boy. Still, Daddy said Grandpa Burke wasn't all that happy when he started squiring my mama."

"Why?"

Beth shrugs. "Mama was just back from college, and Daddy was a lot older. Grandpa Burke's age, practically. I think Grandpa Burke imagined Mama marrying some young professional, maybe a doctor or a teacher. But in the end he saw that Daddy was a good man and they were in love, and that was all that mattered. Not some numbers on a birth certificate." 

"I think your Grandpa Burke was a smart man," Daryl says after a long moment.

Beth replaces the photo back onto the desk. She glances up at him, suddenly feeling awkward. She's met Merle; she's seen glimpses of the scars that Daryl takes great pains to hide. Prattling on about her father and happy families was a mistake. She twists her hands in her lap, grasping for something else to say. He saves her the effort by handing her the comb.

"Hair's done."

"It is?" Beth blinks, reaches up to run a hand through her hair. All the snarls and tangles are gone, and her hair feels sleek and shining. She realizes that Daryl had probably been done for a while, had probably sat and simply brushed her hair while she closed her eyes and drifted in a blissful daze. It had felt so… nice. Nice to be pampered. Nice to be taken care of. 

Nice to feel Daryl's hands on her, his presence large and warm at her back. To feel his fingers brushing along her shoulders as he lifted her hair, making her shiver at his touch. 

"Well… thanks," she says. She ducks her head to hide the blush she can feel creeping up her cheeks, watches him through her lashes as he gets up off the bed and makes his way to the cell door. 

"Anytime," he murmurs. 

When he hesitates in the doorway she swallows and lifts her head, shakes her hair back off her face. Watches him – the way his fingers curl compulsively around the bars, the way he bites at the inside of his lip. 

"Daryl—" she begins.

"Don't cut it," he says quickly. "I like your hair."

And then he's gone, his stride quick and light, with her still staring at the empty place where he'd stood only a moment before.

Beth smiles slowly; doesn't look away until the sound of his footsteps have faded into the night. Then she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and picks up the photo of her parents, looks at it speculatively, seeing it with fresh eyes. Her dad, hair already fading to grey, eyes twinkling at the camera; her mother, full of the vibrancy of young adulthood, standing proud and strong on his arm. 

She replaces the photo on the desk, angles it so that the shaft of light coming through the tiny window in the cellblock hallway lands on the smiling faces of her parents. She slips off her boots and slides into bed, tucks her arm under her head and feels her own lips curve. She studies the photo until her eyes grow heavy. 

A good man who'll love you and treat you right. That's all that matters. Not some numbers on a birth certificate.


End file.
